


hoarding your name in my mouth

by asrielter



Series: look how long this love can hold its breath [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Epistolary, F/M, Jon Snow is King-Beyond-the-Wall, Love Letters, Political Jon Snow, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, in a way? they love each other they just skirt around it a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:22:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21552187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asrielter/pseuds/asrielter
Summary: Some of the personal correspondence between Jon, King-Beyond-the-Wall, and Sansa, Queen in the North, beginning two years after the events of the finale. This epistolary exchange serves as a sort of prologue to the events detailed in a third-person fic that I’ll post separately, as part of the same series as this.In truth, dearest Sansa, I miss our conversations more than anything.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: look how long this love can hold its breath [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1553164
Comments: 24
Kudos: 54





	hoarding your name in my mouth

**Author's Note:**

> Some footnotes at the end might be of interest.
> 
> Thank you to my very dear friend Izzy, whom I talked to about this when I still thought I would probably never get around to writing down a word of it at all, and provided help and reassurance with the research part; thank you to Carling, who beta'd and whose friendship has been precious to me for years; thank you to Sue, who also read this before it got published and provided helpful feedback, as well as being a lovely friend who'll hear me talk about historical clothing for, well, hours.

> _I’ve hoarded your name in my mouth for months. My throat is a beehive pitched in the river. Look! Look how long this love can hold its breath._

— Sierra DeMulder, from “Your Love Finds Its Way Back” in _Today Means Amen_

* * *

To her beloved cousin the King-Beyond-the-Wall, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, greetings and willing service.

It is the dearest hope of my heart that this missive finds you in gladness and good health.

The Kingdom in the North sends to you worsted and woolen fabrics from White Harbour, for the value of 500 silver stags per yard; woad-dyed fabrics, 550 silver stags per yard.

Much has been made of the wood your kingdom sent us last; Wintertowne expanded greatly, with new houses for the castle workers, the builders, and a new tavern. The reparations and improvements at Winterfell set my heart aflutter with joy, but my head feels sore from the sustained noise. All of the day the ears are assaulted with a concert of hammers and stone carving, orders shouted here and there, so that by night it is no peace and quiet to envelope one’s mind, but an echo of the repetitive sounds of tools hitting rock, wood, and metal, as if a phantom ensemble of masons were at work. I have taken to wearing my braids over my ears every day, which I confess helps muffling the sounds a little, and only the lightest silver circlet for a crown, but for the past week my headache has not left me. As such, I write you now from Castle Cerwyn, which I imagine I shall increasingly be doing. Jonelle Cerwyn is the oldest of my ladies-in-waiting, as she is now past the age of thirty, and a maiden still. I tell you, she is no beauty, but I have hopes of finding a husband for her yet, or House Cerwyn shall die with her. Moreso, it shall be one less lord vying for my hand. It seems that every week there is some man, may he be young or old, a Great Lord or a minor one, that seeks to be accepted into my favour. None are, as you well know; but I grow tired of this game of compliments and smiles, and every day more I feel older by an age. I am soon to be twenty and one; the age Mother was when she gave birth to me, with Robb already three. I feel sometimes older than the stones of my bedchamber when I lie abed at night. Do you feel older than your four-and-twenty, I wonder? I am sure you must. Nay, I know you do. You’ve always felt the weight of responsibility more keenly than anybody else. I only wonder if your old age has already coloured your dark hair silver. Perhaps at the temples, dear cousin? Why, it must be charming to the shieldmaidens who surely gather round you.

On the fifth day of the seventh moon of the year, 307 AL.

————

To the most excellent lady, her Grace Sansa of House Stark, First of Her Name, Queen in the North, Queen of Winter, greetings.

The mapmaker from your court has returned to us after an absence of sixty and five days; he had never been away so long; I feared we would not see him again. His explorations have been fructuos: enclosed, you will find a new, detailed map of the portion of lands to the east of my seat, and sketches of landscapes, plants and animals. I have asked, but he did not encounter any direwolves. Sure that you will appreciate the drawings, I enclose them here, for you have never been on this side of the Wall, and you always have loved beautiful things. The nature here is harsher than it is in the South; I have learnt that ice has all sorts of shades in it. Sometimes, the beauty of the world beyond the Wall draws the breath from ye. So much so that you forget about — age, and weariness. For a time.

No silver threads in my hair yet, and no shieldmaidens gathering round.

On the twelfth day of the eighth moon of the year, 307 AL.

————

To the King-Beyond-the-Wall, Jon Snow, Sansa of House Stark by the grace of the gods Queen in the North, Lady of Winterfell, salutations.

I have met this morn with the master builder at the castle. When the time is over and the work done, you can scarcely imagine the splendour of our Winterfell then! Such arches, walls, spiral columns, and windows. The godswood wall has been remade anew — if you could see the doorways! Tree branches, and leaves, and fruit, and birds, as real as any, all seem like living things to spring around the pointed arches in the Northern style. While we were walking together, Master Durran told me that sculpting them was much like prayer, and truly you would believe the gods to have blessed his work if you saw it. I write this in wait of your response. I’ll add more whenever it comes.

I have wounded your pride by teasing you about your hair, have I not? Please do forgive me. I promise you, there are no threads of silver used by the weavers adorning the new tapestries with your image. Two cycles are being woven on the looms at White Harbour for the Great Hall at Winterfell, one to run along the western wall and one to run along the eastern wall. Do you imagine what feats of yours they celebrate? I almost wish to keep you in the dark, to entice you into coming here and seeing them for yourself. But I know you have your duties, as I have mine, and I thank you for them as a northerner and as a Queen. Well, I have seen and approved the preparatory cartoons myself, when I travelled to the city to visit the school of tapestry. One is to portray the Battle for Winterfell, as I call what others have taken to refer to by the moniker of “Battle of the Bastards”, and the other the Second Battle for the Dawn.

On the fifteenth day of the ninth moon of the year, 307 AL.

———— 

To the Queen of Winter, Sansa of House Stark, Wardeness of the North, Jon Snow, King of the allied Free Folk tribes.

Sansa, why did you erase the lines after your mentioning of the tapestries, in your last letter? Do you believe your words would have wounded me, by speaking of the past? I only grieve that you do not yet feel you can be wholly frank with me. In truth, dearest Sansa, I miss our conversations more than anything. In writing, I am forced to say more than I would were we face to face; I know I never did talk much, and surely I would blush to speak some of the things I tell you now. Yet I know that in the time we were together, there was an understanding between us. I could look at you and I’d know your mind without you speaking it. By your eyes, or the way you held your hands. I believe it was oftentimes the same for you in my regard. But perhaps it is you who is wounded, in the recollection of our past. For that, I wish I had remedy; I wish it a thousand times over.

I shall lock this letter with greater care than any other I have sent. I am fearful of your thinking some great terrible thing is conveyed in a letter locked with five turns of the lock, and sealing wax on both sides; but it is no more than a piece of my heart. At any rate, I’ll tuck it inside a letter detailing the latest of our trade affairs.

On the seventh day of the tenth moon of the year, 307 AL.

————

The Queen in the North to the King-Beyond-the-Wall, wishing upon you the blessing of the gods.

I must ask you to forgive me for the time that has passed since your last — I have received it, and read it, and held it to my chest. No, not merely have I read it, but I have traced every line with my fingers, spoken the words to myself, cried and smiled upon them, and clasped them to my very soul. Often, at night, I am left alone with my sorrows — not the Queen’s sorrows, but mine and mine alone — not finding consolation though seeking it, thinking in my heart that I can never expect to see you, nor my sister or brother again; in such torments have I lost heart in the hour of the owl and the hour of the wolf. But then the nightingale comes, my ladies-in-waiting soon to enter my bedchamber, and I must be myself again. A regal heart has no cares if not for its people. Since your missive, I have bartered a peace with my sorrows; I was reminded, keenly, of the look of your eyes — the warmth of a fireplace conversation — the sense of companionship we had — such things that the years had started to dull in my memory, making them fade like dreams in daylight. I am stronger now in the recollection that they were shared with you.

These days I share many an evening with my ladies-in-waiting. They tend to me and we spend our time in affectionate companionship, working and singing, embroidering and chatting. Sometimes one or another will ask of you, as they unbraid my hair; Robin of Barrowton is young, and her recollections of you are like those of a child’s worshipping a hero. Just a girl, and a pretty one, I should say, with rosy cheeks and a sweet character. She reminds me of myself, when I was very young. You’ll laugh, I hope, but I remember falling wildly in love with Ser Waymar Royce when he was a guest at Winterfell. I’m sure you remember him, for he was of the Night’s Watch. Robin looks up to you in much the same way. It makes me fonder of her, though I should have no favourites. She is the one who sleeps in my bed most often; she misses her lady mother. I hold her to my chest some nights, sing her to sleep while caressing her hair, like Mother used to do with me. It is a comfort to me as much as it is to her.

There, enough about my heart. For days now I have had great worries. The reduction on the taxes for tradesmen and manufacturers living in cities has made the North a happy country; White Harbor is flourishing, and the city of Queenstowne stands bright where the Dreadfort once was. Or I should say that it will stand, for it is now no more than a construction site, a few good houses, a godswood, and a wood house for the worship of the Lord of the Light. There are many now who seem to favour the Red God; and their number seems to increase with every moment. The North is for the Old Gods and the Red God these days — the Sept is emptier with each passing week, so much so that only travellers and merchants seem to worship there. Most of my people followed me as I turned back to the old faith of the Starks; our faith, for I know you keep to it as well in your heart. It comforts me. Once a month, I stand in the first row inside the red temple for the nightly rite — I am loved for it — and I send a fervent prayer of thanks for your life. In those moments, I am not fearful of the Red God’s name, I do not privately shudder in the shadow of it; no, when the priestess calls _R'hllor who gave us breath, we thank you_ , I pray with all of me as I say, _We thank you for the sun that warms us. We thank you for the stars that watch us. We thank you for our hearths and for our torches, that keep the savage dark at bay_. To unite my voice with those of others, that is what I miss from my days in the Sept; to sing hymns, and feel at one with the people around me. And yet it is no mere game I play for them, no show of tolerance for a foreign religion; somehow, the priestess knows I pray with my heart. I can see in her look that she does. I wonder if she knows who it is I pray for, too — gods, Jon, I believe she does. I think she sees in her flames things about me that I do not yet know, because she has a laughing sort of look in her eye when we meet. You’ll not be happy to read this, for which you must forgive me: I imagine I wouldn’t be overfond of the memory of my own death, myself. But it is your new life I give thanks for, hard and strange and half wolf-like as it is. _We must not speak of it_ , I recall your words. _Please_ , you’d said, and if you were here and I could see your eyes, my voice would not dare pass my lips. But your eyes are not here to hold my tongue, and to write is different than speaking.

For the fourth time I come again to this letter, which I will seal today and send with the tradesmen and other documents. I realised only yesterday that, lost in my thoughts, I forgot to say what preoccupies me so. It is merely that the merchants from Dorne are on their way, and the crown needs money to buy their grain, and other such goods, which is not so readily available, and my small council is tearing itself apart with discussions upon discussions; I only never concede to take money from the funding of a university at Queenstowne. I do  _ not _ still pay the Oldtown Citadel for my Maesters to copy their texts so that the manuscripts can stay in our Winterfell library for ever. I  _ shall _ see the building completed soon, and the university will attract students from every castle, city, town and village in the North; nay, they’ll come from all over Westeros to learn there, and they’ll be free people, men and women, with no chains and no vows to keep them shackled to their desks. I can see it so clearly in my mind.

On the twenty-second day of the eleventh moon of the year, 307 AL.

————

Sansa, I can no more evade the thought of my death than I can the feeling and sight of the scars on my chest; and though it torments me to know I am not the man I was before — sometimes, I feel I am no man at all — and though I am still unsure of the Red God’s purpose in bringing me back, I can scarcely say what it means to me, knowing you pray for my sake in his temple.

I don’t know that I have the words to speak about the war yet — I don’t think on it so often. All that it brings is a bitterness that I can taste like ashes in my mouth. It brings to my nose the smell of burnt flesh, to my gut the guilt that threatens to overwhelm me for all the deaths I should’ve known to prevent. I knew she was an enemy more formidable than the Night King; it was the fear of her that kept me from voicing my strategy to you; and yet I can’t think on it without knowing that if I had only spoken to you, things would be so different now, that I cannot bear to dwell on the thought; and millions alive that were sacrificed, I feel, for too much mercy on my part, wrongly given.

Please do not think me sad — I am not. I have duties here; every day the pact between the Free Folk tribes I lead and your Kingdom fills me with pride, as does seeing my people here peaceful and glad with each other.

The page you sent should bring this back with a small gift for you. It’s a letter opener which I carved from bone myself. I was taught the skill in a village deeper into the forest, to the east of the Milkwater. The direwolf sigil isn’t much to look at, but the other end, which I tested, is sharp enough to cut a strip from your sheet of paper and pierce through several folds for letterlocking.

You are, always, always, in my every prayer.

On the eleventh day of the twelfth moon of the year, 307 AL.

————

To the most honourable King-Beyond-the-Wall, Sansa Queen in the North, salutations.

What a gift did Bran send for my twenty-second nameday! My dearest ser Brienne of Tarth to lead my Queensguard, and ser Podrick Payne with her. Surely you imagine my joy in seeing them again. Ser Brienne was somewhat embarrassed when I held her, and ser Podrick positively coloured. Ser Brienne said that they had done their duty in King’s Landing, _but felt our place was here, Your Grace_. Those were her words. Tears fell from my eyes as I held her hand replying that it is my great privilege to be protected by two such knights. I have made a home of the North in these past years — a comfortable home — ruling with as much grace as the gods grant me, and I feel secure in the love and respect of my people. Yet having them here led me to an understanding of my own heart. For much too long have I ignored my own desire for the closeness of somebody who remembers me as Sansa, from before I was queen. Bran gave me Widow’s Wail, too — that ugly weapon Joffrey fashioned out of Father’s greatsword. Winterfell’s chief blacksmith already has it; I have a mind to have him make a Valyrian steel dagger for my own use, and perhaps a set of crowns. Not that I expect to have any use of daggers for self-protection, especially with ser Brienne by my side; but as peaceful as these years have been, I know I have been evading what many consider the greatest of my duties for long. The throne of Winterfell won’t be secure without heirs, and if I were to die without issue, it would be war again. I don’t wish any more bloodshed on the grounds of Winterfell; I won’t have these honey-coloured stones, so lovingly placed, stained for the hunger men have to seize power. It’s just as well that the Dornish prince, Manfrey of House Martell, has sent a Myrish artist to paint my picture. I’m expecting him just now, so that we can discuss it.

I am back to my desk now. It is well after supper; a feast was held in my honour last night, but though I had it be a small affair, our dances quite exhausted me and I couldn’t write again until now. My lady Alysanne is playing the harp for us, and I am sitting near the great fireplace. Much has been discussed yesterday with Seral of Myr, master in the art of painting, in the way of gowns, hairstyles, poses and style; he’d brought some very fine silks of yellow and pink for me to wear, but I refuse to pose in anything but my own garments. He was desperate to have me wear my hair down, using flattery here and begging there, mentioning the rarity of a shade of red such as mine, but I am no longer a child to have hair unbound down my back. Prince Manfrey should know it is no green girl he is courting.

On the twenty fifth day of the ninth moon of the year, 308 AL.

————

To the most gracious Queen, Sansa of House Stark, Jon King of the Free Folk, greetings and ready service.

I have been surprised to hear from Tormund that a shieldmaiden, belonging to one of my tribes, has made return from her travels south of the Wall with a farmer’s daughter she claims to have stolen. The farmer, meeting oft with said tribe for the exchange of goods as sanctioned in the agreement of our kingdoms, was placated directly by you, Your Grace, as reported by the farmer’s daughter herself. How come you did not call upon me, to rectify an incident such as this? It very well might have threatened the peace between the North and us. It might have destroyed all that we have worked to achieve, everything that I am here for, and you didn’t think to summon me? Do you doubt for an instant I would’ve come? I have your royal pardon; I am free to cross the border. For all we know, every goodman and goodwife from Queenscrown to Last Hearth might have heard of this already and start a war at the slightest insult, real or imagined.

On the tenth day of the tenth moon of the year, 308 AL.

————

To the King-Beyond-the-Wall, Sansa of House Stark, Queen in the North, blessings.

Upon my asking of your whereabouts at the moment of the incident, as you very well named it, I was assured you were unreachable, close to the Frostfangs and fighting a rebel tribe. Surely, Your Grace, you’ll believe I thought you to be then presently engaged in more pressing matters than those of a farmer’s second daughter who quite willingly fled from her house to live free with her lover. Rest assured this was an isolated incident, not to be repeated to anybody. The villagers all swore as they bowed to me, that no animosity lies towards the Free Folk, and no word of this will escape their mouths. Do you, perhaps, lack faith in my authority as a Queen?

On the twenty-third day of the tenth moon of the year, 308 AL.

————

To the most excellent Queen in the North, salutations and ready service.

I humbly ask for your forgiveness, Sansa. Please understand, I was not told of all that you had done upon the occasion; my heart was seized with fear that all our progress had been in vain. This does not excuse the tone in my last letter. I am a beast. I should’ve demonstrated the absolute faith I have in you, and the devotion of your people, which I am sure to be as boundless as the love you inspire in their hearts.

The men who showed me the goods imported from the North tell me that Winterfell repairs and improvements are being finished, and that Queenstowne is growing in size and beauty with every visit. My heart swells with pride for the ruler you are. The North couldn’t have asked for a better one.

On the fifteenth day of the eleventh moon of the year, 308 AL.

————

To the King-Beyond-the-Wall, the Queen in the North offering the blessing of the gods.

A new Winterfell greets the eye of every visitor now, more beautiful than it ever was. I have celebrated the workmen in the Great Hall a fortnight ago; a feast was held in honour of Master Durran, whom I appointed to oversee the construction at Queenstowne, and everywhere was cheer. The celebrations in Wintertown could be heard from the castle, and lights were lit in every place. There was drinking, and dancing, and a great number of suitors to declare their love for me. If only I could choose a husband among the lords! I would have a Northern man. But they are all boys, or old men, or distrustful, or lecherous. But enough of such men. That good evening we had a visitor from afar: a handsome minstrel by the name of Gwayne, who like many others sought to entertain my court. In truth, Jon, I have never heard a voice so sweet, songs so beautiful, or a lute so enchanting. At first he regaled us with instrumental compositions during our repast; then I asked him to come closer, and play us some new songs. Of course, there was one for me, _Queen most gentle_ , pleasant enough to the ear; but then he played a tune so sorrowful I could not help but weep, and weep most silently, for it went like so:

> __ Flow, my tears, fall from your springs!  
>  Exiled for ever, let me mourn;  
>  Where night's black bird her sad infamy sings,  
>  There let me live forlorn. 

I have transcribed in the back of the paper my notation of the tune, so that you may have an idea of it — but nay, it doesn’t do much to translate the beauty of it. My heart was thoroughly broken by the end of it, I confess; and many cried with me, at the high table and throughout the hall. I’m sure even you would’ve shed a tear, or ten.

Master Gwayne brought us all to tears and silence, then, and when the song was over, I applauded most heartily. He elegantly bowed, and the only reward he would accept of me would be to remain as court minstrel. As I had never appointed one, relying on travellers and jousters for entertainment, I all too gladly gave him the charge.

Seral of Myr has finished my picture. Two, of equal size, twins in every aspect, were the Dornish commission: one for the prince, and one for my keeping. I had him make one more, in the miniature style, which I’ll have brought to you with this same letter as a gift for your name-day. You see, I do not forget. The miniature is entirely charming; I am amazed at the details of it — if you look quite closely, you’ll see he has even captured my eyelashes! — all brush strokes so fine, and the thing fitting a medallion the size of your palm. I like it better than the large ones, I’ll say. There’s a glint of laughter in my expression that’ll make you smile, I’m sure. But the others… She looks different, this Queen in the portrait, from the woman who looks back at me when I look at my reflection; the mirror-woman knows my secrets, my fears and pains, the troubles that keep me from the deep dark slumber; the Queen in the portrait knows none of these; and yet, she appears to feel my own longings. I had thought to be able to conceal all; to have a face of stone, as a Queen should; I find I conceal much, but not all. Can the Lords read my eyes? Do they know? Do the Ladies at court? My ladies-in-waiting? I do love and trust them, but even now, there is no body close to my heart as you.

The Prince of Dorne writes he has _the sincerest admiration_ for me. His words exactly were, _I hope the friendship between us can only increase in closeness and pleasure_. He is coming to the North for the tournament I am preparing at Winterfell, on the happy occasion of the completion of the new castle. My scribe is preparing invitations for lords all over Westeros; I am expecting a great number of knights will come from as far as Sunflower Hall. There is much merriment to be had in tourneys, and glory to be attained. I am enclosing an invitation for you and any men of your choosing. I would be glad to host a party from the Kingdom Beyond the Wall for all the Six Kingdoms to see.

On the seventeenth day of the twelfth moon of the year, 308 AL.

————

To the most gracious Queen, Sansa of Winterfell, Jon King-Beyond-the-Wall, felicitations.

Me and ten of my men from various tribes accept your invitation most kindly offered. You may expect us at half the first moon of the year to come.

On the twenty-fifth day of the twelfth moon of the year, 308 AL.

**Author's Note:**

> Interactive map of Westeros: <https://quartermaester.info/>  
> Hours and time measurement in A Song of Ice and Fire: <https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Measurement#Calendar_system>  
> Letterlocking: <http://letterlocking.org/dictionary/>  
> Medieval letters, from which I only took slight inspiration for the greetings of the letters: <https://epistolae.ctl.columbia.edu/letters>  
> Musical notation of “Flow, My Tears”, from Dowland, John, Musical Works of John Dowland, ms Magdalen College Arch.D.4.29, fol. B2v: <https://digital.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/inquire/p/d16ea4f8-5a4b-412c-9562-e94cd9e6d6de>  
> “Flow, My Tears” performed by Valeria Mignaco, soprano, and Alfonso Marin, lute: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jkRrzAo9Wl4>  
> “Flow, My Tears” sung by Seil Kim, tenor, and lute played by Heihachi Nagata: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TBBo8qHe95k>  
> •••••  
> Please leave a review if you can! It would help me a lot as I'm getting back into writing, and I'm writing the sequel to this in narrative prose. It'll be posted separately in the same series as this, because I feel both should be able to stand alone.


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